


Father

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hell, Torture, idfk, kinda sorta porny but they dont have phsyical bodies, vague and abstract
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t have the names for her sins, doesn’t have the words. As her soul is flayed apart and burned to the last nerve, she is not a creature anymore, not any identifiable existence, just a perpetual scream that merges hoarse with the wailing dirge of hell’s masses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father

If she tried hard enough, Meg Masters could remember that she used to be alive once upon a time. It’s a distant memory, through the grime and ichor that crawls over her. It’s drowned out by the pain and suffering in what she knows must be hell. This place is and it isn’t. It is everything one might assume, but the experience is so all encompassing that she hasn’t the thought to give to naming things much anymore.

There are rare moments of lucidity, when the torture stalls and the pain recedes, that she can wonder. What it was that she used to be, what brought her here. It’s at such a distance now, untouchable, and she forgets. What could she have possibly done to deserve this, it must have been awful; she must have been a horrible creature, to be put here. She doesn’t have the names for her sins, doesn’t have the words. As her soul is flayed apart and burned to the last nerve, she is not a creature anymore, not any identifiable existence, just a perpetual scream that merges hoarse with the wailing dirge of hell’s masses.

Those that torture in hell aren’t creatures of any physical existence, they don’t have confines or spatial relations, nothing does in this place of non existence. But the shreds of a human mind cling to any sort of imagined tangibility. Creatures are conjured and created from imagination, weft of gossamer threads when she feels them, feels their presence, their energy is a thing she can know. The great beasts of old tales, cloven hoofed and rams head horned, dirty vile creatures, they come and go in glimpses of a mind seeking some semblance of reality, seeking to impose some sense of finity and boundary in a limitless place.

Eventually Meg understands an order in this place of chaos. In the screams of those surrounding her she begins to hear voices, to recognize. There are autonomous ones, old ones, powerful ones. Names given to favored ones that are as sibilant as the serpent that tempted the first, names spoken like a hiss, and one comes to her.

Alistair.

He is a master here, a notion of hierarchy, and she grasps for it, for definition, for any sort of order. Corporeality is moot, sensation is the entirety of existence. And this master knows exactly how to reach into her core and rip apart the seams till she spills out in front of him and he can play in every part of what she is and used to be and is not yet. He touches her with his energy in gleeful violence and leaves his mark upon the fractured crumbling remains of her soul.

She does not know how long she knows Alistair but she begs for release, they all do, it is a chant throughout their hell that stutters and rises and swells incessant. There is no hope here. There is no relief. And Meg is one of the few broken apart whose screams turn to laughter.

That is when another comes for her. His name coils through her mind and chokes her off.

Azazel.

He wraps around her barbed and suffocating, these masters, these old ones, they all have particularity to their method, something identifiable. She reaches for it, to know something that can place a marker here, a sense of difference and becoming and change. He strips her apart and sews her back and recreates her time and again.

_Please_

_What can you give you me that I don’t already have?_

_Please, please_

_I hold your soul in myself, you are mine_

_Please_

_What can you give me?_

_I can give you my obeisance, I can give you my loyalty_

_You would give to me – and only to me – all of yourself, howsoever I would take it?_

_Yes_

_Then you shall be reborn as my child._

She felt his declaration like a balm, a benediction in the depths of hell. It soothed over her soul in a brief moment of clarity before it rent her asunder in more ways than she’d ever known, so completely, so wholly into her soul everything was shattered then pulled together and coalesced into a thing she’d never been, all jagged edges, deeply it roiled like a maelstrom.

A demon was born.

Her mutilated soul ached and reached out for him, it pulsed in tandem to his presence. There was recognition there now, desire, for he gave her purpose and rewarded her faithfulness.

Hell was suffering, it was an immutable truth, but in the thing she had become there was an ease in the new power, a sense of control that steadied and guided her. She suffered and she served her father for she had found a cause in him. To maim and twist and mangle new souls till they were hollow enough for him to fill with black, black, black.

He was darkness and he was smoke, all secrets and steady dominion. There were moments she cherished above all else when he came to her, and wrapped her up in himself. He touched her soul in a way that was almost gentle as it shuddered through her in ripples of lapping pain, rhythmic undulations, familiarity to the repetition she could surrender to and let the searing touch mark it’s claim unto her. He filled her and surrounded her and overwhelmed her, and she preened for the surging want that she could feel writhing with him.

He taught her, not just pain but control. Subservience for those above her, mastery of those beneath her. A rightful place. Order imposed in the chaos like an anchor by which to steady and hold. And she gave him everything, let him shape and mold.

He came to her, thrumming with energy and brimming almost too full with impending violence.

_Daughter I must leave you._

_Where are you to go that I cannot follow?_

_I must surface and take a vessel for myself. There are preparations to be made and the time draws nearer._

_Take me with you father._

_I will summon you, in time, but for now you must stay, and continue to convert demons for me._

_For what?_

_I am raising an army._


End file.
